


The Witch in the Woods

by kathkin



Series: Summerpornathon 2014 [10]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Community: summerpornathon, F/F, I found a femmeslash pairing AO3 doesn't already have a tag for I'm so proud, Non-Graphic Violence, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Is it true what they say? Is there a witch in these woods?” / “There’s a witch in all woods.”</i> Freya is a blind witch living alone in the woods. Morgause is pulling a Sweet Polly Oliver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witch in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> For Challenge 7 at [summerpornathon](http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com): Five Senses.

The rain had passed, and the weather had grown warm; the soil in the garden was damp and hot betwixt Freya’s fingers as she planted her seedlings, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face.

_Clump – clump – clump_ she heard. She knew the sound for horses’ hooves before she heard the rattle of a bridle. She turned her face upwards and saw the misty shadow of a man upon horseback.

“Which way to the road, miss?” Not a man – a boy. His voice was too high for a man.

The road was not far east, and it had often born men on horses lately. Freya’s Eyes had seen them. There was to be a battle to the north. “East.” She pointed.

The boy on the horse didn’t ride away. “Are you alone?” he said. “You ought not be alone. They say there’s a witch in these woods.”

Freya gathered up her basket and straightened. “I don’t fear witches. It’ll be dark soon, and it’s a long ride to the road. You’d be best to stay here a while. I’m sure your battle will wait.”

The boy hesitated; then, to her relief, he dismounted.

*

Freya’s Eyes came back to her before dark, while the boy was stirring the pot for her. Her black cat streaked through the door and onto her lap, and at last she could see the boy. He was younger even than she’d thought; too young to be riding off to war. “How old are you, boy? How many summers?”

“I am eighteen.” The boy ladled stew into two bowls. It was a lie if Freya had ever heard one.

*

But that was not the lie; no, she saw through the lie the next morning. She was woken by the boy moving about her cottage, and she set her Eyes watching him. While she sat crouched indoors by the hearth, Freya’s eyes watched the boy strip off his leather armour and chainmail, strip off his clothes, and wash himself – wash herself at the pump outside.

A girl, then – a girl of eighteen, a woman, with blonde hair and a husky voice. Freya said nothing. She fed the girl again and sent her on her way.

“Is it true what they say?” said the girl as she mounted her horse. “Is there a witch in these woods?”

“There’s a witch in all woods.” Freya stood with her Eyes clutched to her chest, watching, watching the girl ride away; once the girl was out of sight, she dropped the cat and let it race into the woods to chase birds.

*

The girl came back bleeding. Rain was falling, and Freya was without her Eyes. It was good that her ears were keen, or else she might not have heard the sound of the horse’s hooves and the girl might have laid upon the ground all night.

“I know who you are,” said the girl as she lay inside, bandaged and feverish. “I solved your riddle. You’re the witch.”

“Hush, now,” said Freya. “You sleep now.”

*

“My name is Morgause,” her voice was a low hum, “and you are a witch.” She had bled through her bandages twice now, but Freya would heal her. She would.

“I am a witch,” she echoed. She sat straddling Morgause’s hips, a hand pressed to the place where she was bleeding. When she took it away her palm was hot and bloodied. She stripped off her shift and pressed her hand to her own abdomen, marking herself.

“You mean to kill me,” her voice came, sluggish, at the sight of the knife in Freya’s hands. But she did not struggle. She lay still while Freya cut open her palm and smeared her own blood on Morgause’s hip.

“We will be joined,” she said; and she began the incantation.

*

Freya did not need her Eyes. She saw Morgause’s body through her fingertips. She ran her hands down the woman’s flanks to her thighs, firm and muscled from riding a horse.

“You are a witch,” said Morgause, but now there was no fear in her voice, only wonder. 

“Yes.” Freya parted her thighs and ducked her head between them, lapping like a cat drinking milk at the hot, golden place she found there. 

“Yes,” Morgause agreed. “Yes. _Yes_.” Beneath Freya’s fingers her skin grew hot; beneath her tongue and her lips, Morgause grew wet.

Later, while Freya mouthed at her breasts, Morgause said, “will you teach me?”


End file.
